


Liquid Love

by EliMorgan



Series: Shots and Shorts [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Dancing, F/M, Oral Sex, Smut, SummerFling18, semi-public
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 22:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15229398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliMorgan/pseuds/EliMorgan
Summary: They meet every Friday night in the club...





	Liquid Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arcticcat621](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=arcticcat621).



> **I do not own the works made use of herein, none of the Harry Potter/Marvel universe features or characters belong to me. I make no money from this work.**
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> Written for SummerFling18 in the Marvelously Magical Fanfiction Facebook Group: Prompt XO10: They meet every Friday night in the club. A gift for [arcticcat621](https://archiveofourown.org/users/articcat621/pseuds/articcat621) who asked for oral sex, dirty talk, and light bondage; I just about managed oral sex (dirty talk is not my forte. Or, not yet-).
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> I've never written a one-shot with smut before, so this was a challenge! Here we go!  
> Enjoy!  
> 

They met every Friday night.

It’s tradition, now. Unplanned, more of a wink-wink, nudge-nudge scenario than an exchange of numbers, dates and times.

Informal.

Tony liked informal; spontaneous;  _fun_.

Schedules, deadlines, contracts – they broke some unwritten rule of the universe, sucking the creativity and joy from life. He avoided them like the plague. 

This arrangement, though... Despite its informality, between the lines hid responsibility. Commitment. He should leave. The old Tony would leave. But - he always felt better on a Saturday. Saturdays, he was pleasant to be around. His barbs had less edge, and he could be found smiling if you moved quickly enough to catch it. And all because of -

Her; sin in a gold dress, hair piled high on her head, she slipped into the room in a manner that might have been unobtrusive except that it was not only Tony who watched her. He smiled – a warm, genuine thing; another reason he should leave. He was getting attached. Attachment was dangerous. Yet...

She slid through the crowd, not looking at him. The music was a slow, sensuous beat and she moved with it, drifting to-and-fro until she found her spot – in deep, until all he could see was the occasional glimpse of chestnut hair under the lights, a flash of pale arm, a sliver of silk. When the tune caught her, she lost herself in it, shamelessly. 

He motioned for another drink. A classy place, the club was upmarket enough that the staff and clientele were discrete, not so upmarket that the manager would be opposed to a healthy bribe. Tony would know – he’d had the man on his payroll for six months. Stockbrokers, corporate lawyers, high-flying bankers; they all let loose here before the weekend brought them wives, children, apartments in buildings where the doormen were paid to report these men and their doings to the family. Within this crowd of the amoral, untrustworthy and filthy rich, his woman was a beacon of light as she twisted and span, dancing out of the grip of any man that might take liberties. She didn’t look at him.

A game. Different each time; the outcome the same. It wasn’t just about the sex, though that was a large part – it was about the companionship, the company – him and her. About a month in, they’d started to talk. Two after that, he taken her to a hotel – to flirt. To theorise. To tease. Then elsewhere. They were always back in their respective beds by dawn but between sunset on the Friday and daybreak on the Saturday, they were in a world entirely of their own. 

Anticipation stirred his stomach as a gap in the crowd allowed him a split-second view of her. The fabric of her dress clung lovingly to her every curve, her heels making her legs long and fine, the flashing of the lights creating shadowed spots of mystery on her throat, between her breasts, further down…

He licked his lips, whetting his dry mouth with another sip of whisky. 

"Another?" The barman asked, loudly to be heard over the music. Tony ignored him, too mesmerised to spare a nod. She'd disappeared again – how she did it, he couldn't comprehend. She had an innate sense of timing, of seduction; Tony, with years on her, couldn't compete. That, he supposed, was why he wasn't the one dancing. 

They'd danced together all of three times. Once, the first night, when he'd made his move by slipping in behind her, feeling her reaction when they'd pressed against each-other. The second, in their room at the hotel. He'd been in a sentimental mood, foregoing his usual tastes to spin her around the room to Sinatra, revelling in the softened look on her face, the open delight, somehow more intimate than sex had ever been.

The third time, on a Tuesday evening. A fundraiser at the Met. The reason he was so conflicted about their relationship. 

She hadn't told him she'd be there, but then, why would she? Their affair was confined to Friday nights – no contact otherwise. Seeing her had been a shock; pretending he didn't know her, didn't care about her, all the time watching jealously as she'd twirled about the floor with other men... worse.

Three days ago. He'd spent them wondering what to do. Knowing he should end it, that it was getting dangerously close to real life, but at the same time pining – yes,  _pining_  - for just another night with her.

Hours passed, just watching her. Getting caught up in the mystery. Nothing was mysterious to Tony Stark, everything accessible with a spoken command, yet – he'd looked her up, months ago, and only found the scantest of biographies. Hermione Granger, born in London, England. Many degrees. Nothing else. It was as if, in this age of technology, privacy a myth, she simply did not exist.

Finally, impatient, buoyed by the alcohol, he slipped from his seat and pushed through the crowds to where she swayed, admiring her in full glory. Her hair had loosened, tumbling in streamers around her neck and shoulders, teasing the line of her collarbone and slipping beneath her dress. Alive, so alive, like every part of her; her dancing eyes, her peaches-and-cream skin, the feet that barely stopped moving even in repose, never missing a beat.

He reached out to touch her shoulder, his finger grazing down the slope of its blade. She peeked back and caught his eye, her eyes bright with excitement. He couldn't help grinning as his fingertip found the scars beneath the thin material, flattening there.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, bringing him closer so that she could stand on her tiptoes and greet him. He ignored it, instead reaching up to tangle his hand in her hair, wrapping the clinging strands between his fingers. "So pretty," he cooed, half to himself. She brightened immediately, leaning into him. Quick, clever eyes scanned his face, gauging his mood. To decide on an approach. He let her see his confusion, the days of conflict, and his new desperation for her.

With a smile, she took his free hand, and after a gentle tug at her locks he freed the other, leading her through oblivious crowds until he pulled her through the service door and into shadow. Automatically, her hand flew to her pocket, instincts from her past rising as she sought the comfort of her wand. Keeping a leash on his own feelings, he let her orient herself – he had his own tics to accommodate, and their mutual understanding of one another's trauma contributed largely to the strength of their bond.

As much as Tony hated magic – and God, did he  _loathe_ magic; even after her patient casting and re-casting of minor spells so that he might search for a scientific explanation _–_ he had to admit it was handy that with a wave of her little stick and some mumbling they were safe from prying eyes. With the two of them such public figures – Hermione Granger, famed War Hero and Diplomat, and Tony being, well...  _Tony Stark -_ a single slip could have gossip rags all across the world peeing their pants in excitement. Privacy was paramount. 

He cupped her face in his hands when he recognised the end of the spells and dragged her to him. His lips pressed against her cheeks, then her forehead and her nose, indulging himself in softness. It had never been like this with Pepper, for all that he'd loved her. So much had stood between them; sides of himself tightly leashed, so well-hidden that his faithful CEO still, after years of friendship and a seemingly endless on-off relationship, had no clue existed.

Hermione knew. Hermione was a fit for him in every way; order to his chaos; accepting his restlessness and soothing him through their short encounters. Even now, with urgent need clawing at his chest, she made him feel as though he could conquer it, if only long enough to show her his appreciation in so small a way.

Her lips against his were caressing, addictive. She tasted of fruit, woman, and some cheap wine she had a fondness for that he'd had imported for less than his whiskey had cost him that night. His chest rumbled, mind clouding over – for her. Always. 

His hands found her hips, digging into the soft flesh, enough to make his presence known, to allow her to discern his need; pressing his pelvis against her stomach until she gasped. He bit at her lips, tongue pushing through, savouring the surprised mewl that followed as he pressed in, in, to tangle his tongue with hers, gathering her sweet taste as if he could swallow it down, absorbing her very essence. She responded in kind, fierce in her possession. He wished, as he always did, that he had something better to offer her than whiskey and toothpaste; hardly ambrosia, for all that her reactions might suggest otherwise. 

Pulling away, he gasped for air. One hand swept up to toy with the neckline of her dress, plucking and pulling and then slipping it down until her flesh spilled out, perching invitingly in the palm of his hand. She was panting, too, her head tilted back as she watched him out of half-closed eyes. The beat of his blood in his veins, pooling in his cock, in his chest where his heart pounded madly –  _for her_  - became suddenly apparent. He was  _ravenous_. He lined her neck with licks and bites, firm, as his fingers pinched and flicked the sweet, pointed tip of her breast. She melted against him, her hands fluttering as she searched for someplace to hold, every brush just sending him spiralling higher until he was dizzy with desire. He sucked a mark onto her collarbone, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she moaned, long and loud.

She pulled back. It took a moment for him to recognise it through the emptiness, but when he did, he pouted, reaching out for her as she danced away from his hands. "What'd I do?" He asked, concerned. They worked each other roughly,but with complete trust – that was how this worked. He knew she'd speak if he hurt her, so the quick escape, that teasing dance, was new.

"Trust me," she said, her cut-glass accent husky with all sorts of sins. He found her face, a full-body shudder racking him at the intent there. He let his arms fall boneless to his sides. She gave a wicked smirk at his acquiescence, scratching her fingers lightly over his shirt. "Thank-you," she whispered, and lowered herself to her knees.

_Hell._

With that motion, Tony was on fire; the heat an endless, burning torment, scorching his nerves. So intense that he was almost numb with it. 

His eyes slid shut when he felt her palms smoothing over his thighs, up, up, around to caress his buttocks before sliding inexorably towards where he needed her most. They rested there, oh-so delicately, and he knew what she was waiting for. He tipped his head against the wall, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath, before he opened his eyes and looked down.

God, she was magnificent. A mischievous smirk on her lips, she tipped her head, brushing her cheek affectionately against his thigh. Still watching him, she twisted to nuzzle the distended fabric. Through his jeans he could barely feel her, but there was something to be said for the imagination; thinking of her soft cheek pressed against his cock, her panting breaths on his balls as she snuggled closer to them…

He let out an unintelligible noise, thrusting his hips closer. He was so hard it was painful, trapped between the rough weave of the denim and his hip. He reached to take action but she was already moving, quick fingers plucking at the zip and dragging the material down his legs until it bunched around his ankles and he was bare.

His penis looked ruddy and monstrous next to her face, with its delicately feminine features. Never an overly sentimental guy, still Tony had to fight the urge to hide it from her, as if she’d be offended. He knew better but she sometimes looked so overwhelmingly small that-

She made a humming noise low in her throat, circling the base with her hand and drawing it up the shaft. 

The feel of her mouth on him was bliss, knocking every other thought away. His vision nearly whited-out at the shock, and he vaguely heard himself gasping for air as she pulled back, swirled her tongue around the tip, and buried him back inside her throat with determination written across her face. "God, that's -" he managed to cough out, unable to finish, to find a word to describe it. "Beautiful," he said instead, absolute truth. 

Her eyes flicked up, burning amber in the low light. Her tongue gave a sinuous wriggle along the sensitive underside, drawing back slower this time so that he could see every long, glistening inch of himself retreat. Tony’s breath quickened as pure pleasure curled through him to gather at the base of his spine, pooling in his tightened balls. 

He reached for her hair – magnificent, bushy curls that contrasted starkly with her more solemn, controlled personality. He equated it with himself; mad and uncontrollable; loved to knot his fingers in it and pull until she gasped. Today, she stopped him. Without pausing she reached up and grabbed his hands mid-air, pushing them back against the wall. He might have fought – would have – but that the motion pulled her farther down his shaft – with a strangled groan he felt himself knock against the back of her throat, felt the frantic fluttering of her gag reflex as it fought him and she suppressed it. 

“Oh – God – Hermione –  _fuck_ ,” was all he could choke out. Her chuckle vibrated through his cock – his knees buckled as a wave of something white-hot and vicious ripped through his body. His cock swelled impossibly, and he was  _coming_. Her hands on his wrists tightened and released, her beautiful, perfect mouth pursing around him as she sucked him dry; every drop of his release falling into her soft, warm mouth and being swallowed down. 

The sight was too much for him; he dropped to the floor, dragging his appendage unceremoniously from her lips to pull her into his lap and take possession of her mouth. She tasted of both of them at once, and he couldn’t get enough of it, licking in and sipping up every last drop of her unique flavour. "My girl," he muttered, his hands tangled roughly in her hair, holding her in place. "So good to me."

"You taste so..." She hummed against his mouth, and he groaned. They were biting at each other now, his interest renewed by her words. He knew that if he reached beneath her skirt she'd be wet; soaked, even. God, how he  _cherished_ the fact that she wanted him as much as he did her. Cherished  _her_ , even – outside of what they did, how she took him, never flinching from demanding words and hands and giving endlessly, and, when they were in the mood for it, taking in return; once tying him to the bed to pleasure herself with his body continuously through the night until he was begging for mercy that she was loath to give, a puddle of satisfaction at his side.

It was the words, the time, the cuddling for hours and discussing life, the world, politics. She challenged him. Very few people challenged Tony Stark. He'd once read a whole collection of books on Magical Theory in a night so that he could talk to her about her world, and instead found that she had taught herself electrical engineering. She had some 'questions' about what she called 'flaws' in the newest suit's design, and he stubbornly referred to as 'character'. Obviously, he'd been  _outraged_ , and even more so to find that when he made the adjustments she suggested, the suit  _did_ , in fact, work better.

Not that he told her that. 

Not that she'd needed telling, as she'd met him the next week (after he'd spent Wednesday taking the prototype for a spin during a mild Hydra skirmish) with a smirk pasted over her pretty lips.

Pulling back, he stared into the distance, distracted by the conclusions his mind was coming to. Six months, they'd been seeing each other. Twenty-four Fridays. Was that enough? To  _know_?

"Tony," Hermione said, just as he worked himself into a panic. She tapped him on the side of the head and raised an eyebrow at him when he met her eyes. There was empathy there – warm, sincere sympathy. For a moment it seemed that she would demand to know what was wrong, but then her eyes cleared and she got a knowing grin on her face. He startled and made to dump her on the floor, to – what? Run away? Yes, that sounded appealing.

Except she took his arm in a strong grip and stepped in front of him. "There's no rush," she said, comfortingly, her hands in the air as if calming a skittish dog. "I'm not going to push you into anything you're not comfortable with. That's not me."

He opened his mouth to speak, and she cut him off with an impatient look. "Of course I want more. Eventually. But it doesn't have to be right now, or next week, or next month. Just... some time. And, until then, we have this." 

Hermione stepped back, looking like a lost nymph, with an enigmatic smile on her gorgeous face. Tony nodded. He couldn't think of anything better than endless nights like this one. But - he wasn't ready.

Soon, it would be public. Her with an American Muggle, to her world; him, with a British nobody, to his. They'd weather that storm together.

But not right now. Right now, they'd be quiet. Keep it to Fridays. Keep it here.


End file.
